


Bedside Manner

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: Sometimes Bruce forgot just how great his kid was.





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Got some injured dad and worried baby feels the other day. That’s about it. This is nothing otherwise, just some self-indulgent trash heap ooooh ye.

Bruce always knew. No matter his state, and almost no matter his level of consciousness, he always knew. Always, always, always.

The first time, he sensed him outside the door. Knew he was sitting against the wall, on the floor, a sketchbook in hand. He could hear the _skrit-skrit_ of a pencil being dragged along the page. Fell asleep once or twice, and woke up to the same, unending sound. Knew the boy hadn’t moved from his spot.

“Tell him to come in.” He’d grumbled to Alfred, when his pseudo-doctor came in to rebandage the wounds. “Unless you’ve barred visitors?”

“You know I’d _never_ bar your children from seeing you.” Alfred almost snapped. “And I’ve already offered. He politely declined.”

Another time he was knocked out in an alley in Gotham, and woke up to a killer migraine and Tim sitting at his bedside, eyes darting from the book in his hands to the readings of medical equipment around his bed.

He could hear the faint thump of music from headphones, but Tim wasn’t wearing any.

“Did you lock the door on him?” Bruce sighed in exasperation, not needing nor wanting to deal with his sons’ battles today.

“Nope.” Tim responded curtly, not looking up from his book. “I told him he was allowed to check on you himself and he said he didn’t want to. You’re going to be fine and he knows that, so why should he check?”

Bruce grunted, let his eyes fall onto the door across the room anyway.

Tim flipped a page. “Go back to sleep, Bruce. You need your rest.”

He did.

And yet another time, Bruce was fed up with his family’s worry. He was fine, these injuries were nothing. Broken bones were nothing. He had work to do.

So he grabbed the crutches and swung himself out of bed. Hobbled over to the door and dramatically threw it open. Stepped defiantly over the threshold.

And stopped.

Damian was next to the door, half under the hallway table. Curled up in a ball trying to keep himself warm, and fast asleep. His face was pillowed against his sketchbook, against an unfinished drawing of Bruce himself, bandaged and bruised, but reading a book in the library.

He stood there for a moment, just watching the boy. Planned on calling for someone to get him, since he currently couldn’t, due to both crutches and his task at hand, but…after a moment. He just wanted to stand there and watch his child. Just for a second.

But before he could even take a breath, Dick was rounding the corner with a blanket and amused smile. Gave Bruce a wink as he draped the blanket over his littlest brother and scooped in up into his arms, already rushing him off to the comfort of a real bed.

Bruce just watched them go, frowning slightly.

~~

Suddenly the pattern changed. No longer was it the faceless sense of a guardian beyond the door, but a presence in the room. Constant and mostly silent, even when his siblings were in the room.

But there was still distance. Too much distance.

Once, he was so silent, Bruce thought he was alone when he woke up with a fractured tibia and gash in need of a blood transfusion. Grunted as he tried to roll over to get more comfortable, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a sharp inhale from the chair he knew was in the corner. Cracked open his eyes to find his youngest sitting tense, seconds from bolting, knuckles white as they clung to the chair.

And he didn’t move otherwise. In the dark of the room, Damian must not have seen his eyes, as after another moment of quiet, he slumped back in the chair in relief. Leaned his head back and covered his face in relief, or to hide his tearful eyes, if the gentle whimper that echoed through the room after was any indication.

He knew without truly thinking about it – his son was hurting for him.

He wanted to fix it, of course he did. He wanted to jump out of this stupid bed and take his boy into his arms. Promise him everything will be okay, promise him the world if he had to.

But unconsciousness took him back before he could even reach his hand out.

The next time was…admittedly a bit of a blur. He was there every time Bruce woke up, his chair moved closer and closer each time. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes he had headphones in, sometimes he was drawing, or reading.

But his clothes never changed, and he seemed to be skinnier every time Bruce regained that fragile consciousness.

And finally, when he could, when his strength came back, he reached out and grabbed Alfred’s wrist when the old man was near enough, once more fixing his wounds.  

“How long?” He slurred. “How long have I been here?”

“A week, sir.” Alfred returned coolly. “Looking to be another week at least as well.”

And he couldn’t form long sentences or thoughts right now. Tried, but found it too exhausting. And he couldn’t pass out again before he found out.

He jerked Alfred’s hand in the direction of the chair behind him, and the little boy curled uncomfortably into an already uncomfortable chair. “Him?”

Alfred glanced back. “Has not left your side since the moment Stephanie and Cassandra brought you home. The furthest he’s gone is to the bathroom, and most definitely not to shower.”

Bruce blinked, inhaled a painful breath. “Food?”

“Not much. Refuses what I bring him.” Alfred sighed sadly, pulling his arm from Bruce’s grasp to continue redressing the injuries. “Richard and Jason have gotten him to ingest a little, but it sounds like it was via near force. He’s too worried for you otherwise to partake. It’s apparently affecting his appetite.”

And even with all his other injuries, none of it hurt worse than his heart breaking right now.

“Do not stress about it. It will only make it worse, and thus, Master Damian worse.” Alfred hummed. “Go back to sleep and get your rest. It’s all you can do to help him. Richard and I will do our best to care for him in the meantime.”

Bruce felt his stubbornness flair. He didn’t want to sleep. He was tired of sleeping. Tired of being in this damn bed. What he wanted was to get up and care for his family. Care for his little boy. Pick him up, cradle him and make sure he was safe and healthy and take all his current fears away.

So he sat there with a pout on his face, as Alfred continued his work. Stared at the chair and its occupant for as long as he could.

Didn’t realize he’d dozed off again until he jerked back awake, and saw Jason and Dick arguing softly over that chair, where their littlest brother still slept. Jason wanted to take him out of the room. It wasn’t healthy for him and he shouldn’t have to sit here and be miserable and see this.

Bruce wholeheartedly agreed.

Dick just shushed him, first draping a blanket around Damian’s body before lifting him into his arms, and sitting on the chair in his place. Jason just scoffed and stomped out of the room, leaving Dick almost rocking his little brother, while watching exhaustedly over their father.

Dick didn’t say anything to him. Bruce didn’t – couldn’t – say anything back, and fell back into his unwanted sleep.

Then, one of the most vivid memories Bruce had was when he was hyped up on a new strain of fear gas, one they didn’t have an antidote for, and beaten to within an inch of his life.

It was one of the few times he truly believed he might not make it.

He remembered Tim and Alfred strapping him down with restraints, remembered pushing and pulling at them with all his might – which was, admittedly very little. He remembered coming in and out of consciousness over and over, different people in the room every time.

But his little shadow was always there.

At one point he awoke and couldn’t see. Couldn’t see _anything_. But could hear. Things moving around him, people laughing at him. The Joker, Nobody, Talia, Darkseid. Screams of his children, of his friends, of his _parents_.

So he screamed too.

Forgot the restraints were there for his safety, so pushed and pulled against them, yelling and begging and crying against them. Heard another sound, a chair moving. Footsteps.

Then quiet. So quiet it cut through all the other terrible noises.

“Father?” Damian whispered. Then a tiny hand slipped into his, while another held his forearm. “Father, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

“I can’t see.” He shouted, over the other noises. Crashes and bombs and Jason pleading for him to save him. To _love_ him. He squeezed the hand in his. “I…Mom. Dad…!”

“You’re safe.” Damian repeated. Bruce squeezed at the hand tighter, and Damian let out a soft grunt. “I…I have you.”

“Damian.” Bruce breathed, yanking at that hand. Felt Damian bounce against the mattress. Tightened his hold on those fingers again. “Please don’t leave me. Please, son. Please _don’t_ …”

“I won’t.” Damian promised. Blood came into Bruce’s dark vision now, and pearls. A bloody yellow cape. He squeezed Damian’s hand again, held it as hard as he could. Heard a crack echo through the room, Jason getting hit with a crowbar again. Felt something shift in his grip. Damian made a sharp sound, but Bruce couldn’t place what it was, or what it meant, turned his head towards where he thought his boy was. “I won’t leave you, Father. I promise. You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Please don’t leave, Damian.” Bruce begged again anyway. Heard another sound, like a door slamming open, more footsteps. Heard Damian say something, but not to him. Felt a needle prick his neck and let out a shriek. Then the darkness was getting deeper, and his blind eyes were drooping. He clung to Damian’s hand, though, reached for it with his other hand. “Please stay with me, son…”

He drifted into the unconscious abyss once more.

And when he woke again, lucid for the first time in what felt like ages, of course, Damian was still there. Not in the chair this time, but in a makeshift fort of blankets and pillows in the corner, curled into Jason’s side, fast asleep.

There were splints around his fingers on one hand, a bandage wrapped from his knuckles to mid-forearm.

“Bruce,” A voice on his other side. He turned and saw Tim, Dick, Stephanie. It was Tim who had spoken. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible.” Bruce hummed off hand. Looked back to Damian and Jason. Jason, arm around Damian’s shoulders, was looking at him now. “What happened to his hand?”

There was a moment of silence. He turned back to the others. None of them would look at him, their eyes guiltily lowered.

“Well,” Tim tried. “Bruce, you see…”

“ _You_ broke it.” Jason almost snapped. Bruce looked back and saw annoyance and a semblance of anger in Jason’s eyes. “During your fit in the fear gas. He was trying to calm you down and you snapped his fingers like they were damn _twigs_. Fractured a bone in his hand in the process too.”

“We know you didn’t mean to.” Dick offered immediately. “We know it was an accident. He does too.”

“But still.” Jason sneered. “ _You_ did it.”

“I’m…sorry…” Bruce breathed, not taking his eyes off the cast.

“Like Dick said, Damian _doesn’t_ blame you.” Stephanie reiterated. “He still refuses to leave your side. That’s why Jason built him that fort over there. Better he sleeps on the floor with blankets than in that stupid chair, at least.”

It didn’t make Bruce feel any better, of course.

And despite the fear gas being gone from his system, when his children injected him with another sedative, his dreams were filled with nothing but nightmares and the sounds of bones breaking.

~~

Alfred was away. Some League members were coming, but he didn’t need them. They were just worrying over nothing. He could take care of himself. Already was, frankly. Had most of his injuries disinfected and bandaged.

And really – he should be sleeping. That’s the number one thing he needed.

But the League was on their way. And for all their goodness, they weren’t subtle. They’d come bowling in here like a herd of elephants. So he needed to stay awake. Needed to be able to be conscious when they arrived, so he could shush them.

So they wouldn’t wake the baby.

As he wrapped his arm, he glanced down, at the other side of his bed. Damian laid there, curled up on himself, facing him. Had been at his side for hours, since Bruce first hobbled up here to seek refuge from his most recent fight.

He’d offered his help, but Bruce declined it. Not for any real reason, he was almost done with most of the preliminary work by the time Damian arrived anyway.

(But unconsciously – he couldn’t see his son covered in blood, whether someone else’s or his own. Not again.)

But still, Damian remained. Sat in the chair next to the bed, slouched and lazy like the preteen he was, and watched silently.

“For company.” He said, when Bruce asked why he stayed, when there were surely millions of other things he could be doing.

 _Because I’m worried about you._ Bruce heard in the silence that came after. _Because I love you._

And if Dick or Jason were there, they’d have laughed their heads off and called him an old man when, while explaining to Damian what had happened, he dozed off. Leaned back against his pillows and fell asleep midsentence. Knew he snored in the process too, because that’s what woke him. That’s what scared him awake, the sound coming from his own throat.

He’d turned then, out of instinct. Looking towards where he last saw another human being. Looked for his son as he regained his bearings. Found that chair empty. Was about to lament that, and be disappointed, but then glanced down, and found that his boy hadn’t disappeared, like he tended to do, but came closer, like he never did. Was on the bed, letting himself rest too, for once in his life.

Holding Bruce’s hand.

Bruce realized then – it wasn’t just his snoring that woke him up. It was his constant nightmares too. And he didn’t need to be a detective to know that he’d probably reacted, called out in his sleep, and Damian jumped to the rescue. Doing the only thing he could – even if past situations had degreed this simple task dangerous for him.

He also felt the pull of new bandages. Clean ones, haphazardly cared for ones rewrapped properly, new ones on injuries he couldn’t reach on his own and was just going to ignore otherwise.

God, he loved his son so much.

(If only Damian knew. If only Damian _believed_ it.)

And now, hours later, the two remained, even as orange sunlight streamed in through the half-parted curtains. Bruce had dozed a few more times, while Damian remained asleep throughout. And he’d never say out loud, but Bruce’s heart soared, every time he rewoke and found Damian still there and at his side.

When he got the message that the League was on their way, he’d sighed and reluctantly extracted his hand from Damian’s, pulling away bandages that had bled through even the slightest bit.

His teammates were overly dramatic, and just _thinking_ about the likes of Clark fretting over the injuries was already annoying him.

But in the process, he accidentally grunted, as he pulled dried blood and scabs up from his skin. Damian stirred immediately, jumping slightly, blinking sleepy eyes open as he tried to lift himself on his hands.

“It’s alright.” Bruce tried. “Nothing serious. Go back to sleep, Damian.”

But Damian, of course, wouldn’t. Willed himself to sit up on his elbow almost out of spite. Looked his age for once, with the bedhead sticking up at all angles. He looked around, taking in the situation, before staring up at Bruce with the most innocent eyes he’d ever seen. “You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.” Bruce promised with a smile, then without really thinking: “Even better than okay, since you’re here with me.”

Damian snorted and looked away. His muscles tensed and Bruce could feel he was about to get up to leave, or at least go back to the chair, that now felt so, so far away. “Yeah _right_. I think your injuries are starting to affect your _brain_ , Father.”

“Damian, I’m serious.” Bruce chuckled, reaching out before his son could truly move, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and pulling him into his side. “Really. I’m _so_ glad you’re here.”

The child tensed up further, for just a second, before relaxing completely. Carefully, slowly, flopping his arm across Bruce’s torso, and hiding his face in the closest bandage.

“I’m just…” Came Damian’s muffled voice. Bruce allowed him his embarrassment. Just silently squeezed his shoulder and held him closer. “I’m just glad you’re still _alive_.”

“Yeah.” Bruce sighed, closing his eyes. Slowly, he listened as Damian’s breath evened back out, as his son fell back into the sleep he deserved. Opened his eyes when he heard the door open, and immediately put his finger to his lips as Clark, Dinah and Barry all stumbled in. Smiled when they took the hint, and even laughed quietly when Clark immediately grabbed a blanket from the closet and carefully tucked it around Damian’s body. “Me too.”


End file.
